


Boozy Beginnings

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 17:57:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12438486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: My first fanfic. A very gentle beginning.





	Boozy Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Gene/Sam implied.

Gene had the best seat in the pub. If pressed, he’d have said it was because it was near enough the bar to give Nelson the nod when he needed a pint, far enough from the bogs so that he didn’t get a waft of that stench every time someone staggered out, and looking on to the door, so he could keep an eye on who was coming and going. An old copper’s habit, he’d say. He wouldn’t mention that he was actively watching the door, and looking for someone in particular. It was just professional concern anyway – every Friday night that Sam didn’t come down the Railway Arms meant a sullen Monday morning with a man who had spent the weekend thinking too much and not getting enough good, healthy sleep. No more than that.

 

Every time the door opened he had to force himself not to snap his head up. His seat was angled just enough so that he would see them, whoever they were, before they saw him. In case any toerags came in who he needed to get a jump on. Never mind that this was a coppers’ pub and the least likely place to find any of Manchester’s thieves and crooks. You could never be too careful. He had a paper in front of him but he was damned if he’d read more than two words at a time. Later he’d join the group – Ray, Chris and Phyllis seemed to be having a very interesting discussion about bedroom athletics, though the lads didn’t seem to be enjoying it as much as Phyllis was – and Cartwright was in with a couple of the nameless plonks. They’d all come together as the night went on and the beer flowed, but for now they were in their own cliques, and that suited the Guv just fine. 

 

The door opened again, and again Gene had to restrain himself from the reaction that would come naturally, and feign a casual glance over. 

 

Damn the man, it wasn’t him. 

 

Not that Gene cared. 

 

 

Sam approached the pub with the usual feelings of anxiety. He hated feeling this way but couldn’t seem to shake the fear that one night he’d walk in and nobody would be there, leaving him on his own and in more need of a drink than ever. He supposed it was only natural but it didn’t stop him feeling like he was back at school and out of the in crowd. He took a breath, shook his head at his own trepidation, and stepped towards the door. 

 

He had his head lowered as he walked in, and forced himself to raise it. The first table he saw was Chris, Ray and Phyllis, and he breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Relieved to see Ray, nobody would believe it if he told them. Not that he would. Phyllis seemed to be making a gesture with her hands; Chris was looking a bit flushed and Ray distinctly uncomfortable. Chris glanced up and gave Sam a nod. 

 

‘Alright, Boss?’

 

Phyllis put her hands down and reached for her sherry, tipping Sam a wink as she did. 

 

Ray didn’t turn round. That was OK. 

 

 

Sam’s eyes alit on the next table over. Annie sat with two of the WPCs; he thought their names might be Beth and Susie. Remembering names was an important part of the DI job; he wanted everyone to think that he appreciated them as individuals, despite this being a ludicrously modern idea for 1973. Annie had her back to him, but he noticed Beth clock him and say something to the other two. Susie gave him a smile that he barely registered, and he thought he saw Annie’s shoulder twitch. A beat or two passed, then she turned her head and sought him out. She gave him a smile, a sweet, Annie smile, and Sam couldn’t help but smile back. He thought, as always, that he saw a tiny speck of hope in her pretty eyes, drowning in the blue. He felt, as always, guilty to have noticed it. Still, it was hard not to smile back at Annie, and he broke into that trademark Tyler grin, stepping further into the bar. 

 

‘Nice of you to join us, Dorothy.’ 

 

Without thinking, Sam turned to find the Guv – there was no need to wonder who would greet him as Dorothy – still grinning warmly. He found him, sitting right opposite the door and with a paper and a dangerously close to empty Scotch on the table in front of him, that inscrutable face a study in indifference. Sam turned and walked towards him. He thought, from the corner of his eye, that he saw Annie’s shoulders slump just a fraction as she turned back to the table. He hardly noticed. 

 

‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ said Gene, still practising that blank expression that, frankly, he needed absolutely no further practise on. Sam ambled across the short space to the table, shrugging. 

 

‘Thought there might be something on telly for me.’

 

‘I didn’t know they put Jackanory on at this time of night.’

 

Sam would usually have rolled his eyes at this, or given his DCI a sarcastic smile, but with that broad grin still, inexplicably, on his face, he had to laugh it off. Gene huffed laughter back at him, and pushed out a chair with his foot. 

 

‘Take a seat.’ The chair skidded out from the table, remaining upright and stopping at just the right angle for Sam to slide into it. He looked down at it, impressed despite himself, and shrugged off his leather jacket, sliding it down his arms. 

 

‘I’ll just…’he started, reaching for his wallet. 

 

‘No need, Sammy-boy,’ said Gene, lifting a bottle of Scotch from beside him on the floor. Sam raised his eyebrows. 

 

‘Oh yeah? Does Nelson know you’ve got that in here?’

 

‘He bloody should, he sold it to me half an hour ago. For a very reasonable price, I might add…’ Gene lifted a previously unnoticed tumbler out from behind his own, placed it in the middle of the table and proceeded to open the bottle. Sam gave another laugh – he was suddenly feeling really upbeat – and hung his coat over the back of the chair, then folded his neat limbs under the table. He had a warm feeling in his stomach where the anxiety had so recently been. The Guv even had a glass ready for him! The thought was fleeting, he barely noticed it. He was content to enjoy the feeling of inclusion and the anticipation of Nelson’s – he had a quick squint at the bottle – fourth finest Scotch. 

 

Gene slid a now-full glass across the table to him. He lifted it, and tipped it in the Guv’s direction with a head tilt of thanks. Gene blinked his ‘you’re welcome’ and lifted his own glass, mimicking Sam’s gesture. They both drank, Sam suppressing the wince that always accompanied the first sip, the Guv with every sign of pleasure. They both sat back. 

 

Gene felt himself relax, without thinking too much about it. It didn’t do to overthink, he was always trying to tell Sam that. He was aware that it’d felt really good to bring out that bottle and glass and pour Tyler a drink. The man needed a drink, if anyone did; he was being a good DCI by providing one. Just trying to keep the team functioning. Tyler was a man apt to hop on the Magic Roundabout at any moment, it was only natural that Gene wanted to keep him happy. Only natural. Not that he was over-thinking it. 

 

The night progressed like any other Friday. Seats shifted, groups formed and reformed and nobody ever had an empty glass. Sam and Gene got to find out exactly what Phyllis had been saying to the other lads, and laughed themselves silly over it while the other two continued to maintain strained expressions. Annie joined in the laughter and made an oblique reference to that morning when the Guv had found Sam handcuffed to the bed, bollock naked. It was oblique but vaguely complimentary, and while the Guv laughed harder than strictly necessary at the memory, Sam didn’t mind joining in, especially when he noticed Ray scowling. A bit later Sam found himself surrounded by the four women, talking about feminism in that over passionate way that the drink brought out in him. As the women nodded sagely, he raised his head to take another sip from his Scotch (which had been kept generously topped up) and noticed Gene looking over at them, that inscrutable look back in place. Their eyes met, and both looked away quickly. Sam felt another flicker in his stomach, this time one that he couldn’t quite place. He brushed it off and went back to the conversation. Sometimes it was good to be here in 1973, he seemed like such a paragon of virtue compared to the other men. It wasn’t always bad to be the centre of such attention and, he would admit to noticing it, adoration. As he put his drink back down he caught Annie’s eye, this time, and smiled at her. That flicker of hope looked a bit bigger this time. The guilt struck again and he looked away.

 

Later still, and Sam was back by the Guv’s side at that first little table, both leaning inwards on their elbows to hear each other over the music and general rabble. The first bottle of Scotch seemed to have been replaced seamlessly by a second, and both men were feeling happily warm and fuzzy. When Gene found himself thinking the phrase ‘warm and fuzzy’ he laughed at himself, even allowing a small smile to cross his face, as he looked into his drink. 

 

‘What’s funny?’ asked Sam, smiling too. 

 

‘Nothing Sammy-boy, just enjoying being out in the pub’ Gene said, expansively. Sam looked at him. 

 

‘Guv, you come in here every day.’

 

They looked at each other for a moment then, together, started to laugh. Gene felt great. He’d missed having a DI he could laugh with without resorting to the kind of jokes Ray and Chris favoured. Not that there was anything wrong with them, mind, but moments like this one, now, with Sam, made the cheap laughs pale in comparison. They laughed into each other’s faces, each feeding off the other. Pale in comparison, yes indeed.

 

 

When they had run out of mirth, Gene reached for the bottle. He topped up his own glass, but when he came to Tyler’s the man covered it over with his hand. Gene frowned over at him. 

 

‘What?’ he asked. 

 

Sam sniggered again but kept his glass covered. 

 

‘I’m pissed, Guv. I think I’ll get some water…’ he added vaguely, looking around towards the bar where the dust and fag-dowt ridden jugs of water sat ‘…maybe from behind the bar…’ 

 

‘Don’t be a poof Gladys,’ said Gene, reaching over and brushing Sam’s fingers away. The touch of their skin seemed to startle Sam, as he jerked his hand away. Gene felt a bit startled himself. He hadn’t thought anything of leaning over and saving Tyler from his own foolish sense of sobriety, but it suddenly seemed like a bit of an intimate gesture. They’d been physically close before, of course, with fists flying and knuckles bruising, but now this cramped table seemed too close for comfort. He noticed that his knees were touching Sam’s and moved them as he poured more amber liquid into Sam’s tumbler. He showed nothing in his face, but found himself feeling a weird tingle that he tried to pass off as the booze. It wasn’t, though; it was the same feeling he’d had the first time he’d taken a particular pretty girl’s hand to help her down the stairs. His first girlfriend, she’d been, and he’d been thoroughly love-struck. He hadn’t thought about that in years, hadn’t had any cause to be reminded of it. Funny he should think of it now. 

 

He looked up to see Sam watching him. He knew he’d given nothing away in his face, but he still wondered. When you worked closely with someone you got to be a bit whatsit, psychic or whatever. Maybe Sam had picked up something of his thoughts after all. Not that he’d volunteer anything, even if he had been rumbled being a soppy git. He raised his eyebrows at Sam. 

 

‘It’s for your own good,’ he said, meaning the whiskey. Sam looked momentarily nonplussed, then his expression cleared and he lifted his glass an inch or so, nodding. Gene raised his own glass to his lips. How many times had he drained a glass of Scotch in this pub? Yet he’d never thought of that girl until tonight. That tingle was still there, too. Funny. 

 

 

Sam had his head on his arms, flat on the table. He didn’t realise he was dozing until he was woken up, with an uncharacteristically quiet summons of ‘Oi! Dorothy!’ He lifted his head a little way and blinked owlishly. The guv sat opposite him, feet up on a vacated barstool, all long lines and pursed lips. Some might say kissably pursed. That thought brought another few blinks and a quick headshake, as if to clear his thoughts out like an Etch-a-Sketch. The Guv snorted laughter at him, smoke jetting from his nose. 

 

‘Back in the room, areya?’ 

 

‘Gotta get home,’ mumbled Sam, struggling upright in his chair. 

 

‘I quite agree. Let’s have a nightcap.’

 

Gene poured an economical measure into each glass and handed one to Sam. Knowing that this was the path of least resistance, and not really wanting to go home anyway, Sam reached out to take it. His hand, a bit drowsy from sleeping, went a little further than he meant and, for the second time, he found his fingers touching the Guv’s, this time with his on top. He felt that same start, the same warmth in his gut, but this time he didn’t jerk away. There was booze involved, after all, and dropping a glass of Scotch was liable to earn him a world of pain. He repeated this to himself, trying to ignore his hammering heart. He realised, too, that he was far beyond dropping that glass now, yet Gene still hadn’t let go. He looked up, this time meaning to catch some meaning in his DCI’s slate blue eyes, some explanation. Their eyes met, smoke from the cigarette creating a thin veil between them. Blue eyes into hazel, they looked levelly at each other for a second before Gene slid his fingers gently out from under Sam’s. 

 

‘Drink up, then,’ said the Guv, never looking away. 

 

‘It’s home time.’


End file.
